Mail Order Bride Book 10
The wonders of the ever evolving world amazed and comforted Damiano Abana, at that moment. They showed him that, although people were still waging war on one another, and there were loss and suffering all around, the dawn would always come. The sun never stopped rising and setting and rising again. And so, neither could he just lie down and die, just because he was trapped in a dark night. After every night, there came a bright new day. Always.
He hadn’t felt too optimistic in the past year, but, at that moment, he felt like he was holding the promise of his bright new day in his hands, in the form of a so-called photograph, a miracle of the modern world. It had arrived at him through another barely evolving miracle, called post. Another proof that human spirit longed for togetherness, even at great distances. War was simply an outward manifestation of frustration. He had seen it up close and there was no other explanation for it, it had no other logic: there were no real frontiers, no real differences between people; black, brown, red or white skinned, they all shed the same crimson blood and had the same fear in their eyes when face to face with Lady Death.
War had nothing noble or sacred in it. Just a tall tale from the leaders, to trick people into fighting each other for someone else’s ideals. He had certainly been tricked: with how wealthy his family had been, he could’ve steered clear out of the army. But he wanted the fame and glory. No fame and no glory had come to him. However, in the most ironic way possible, he did owe his life to the war front: if he had been back at the estate, he could’ve died in the fire and carnage, too.
Damiano rubbed his right leg. His scar was particularly sore when the clouds gathered up in the sky like that, with the promise of rain. It had been a year since he had gotten that wound and it was still giving him a hard time, both with riding and doing chores around the ranch. He was a vaquero now.
“With no cows…” he mused aloud, staring blankly in the direction of the few scattered cattle, goats and horses that were left to him.
The American-Mexican War had been devastating for San Antonio, Texas. By the end of it, in the fall of 1847, the population had been reduced to 800 inhabitants. What used to be a joyful and busy town, was a site for desperation and mourning. Ranches had also been plundered. To make things worse, that didn’t stop with the end of the war: it was May 1848 and rustlers still took advantage of the fact that many of the paternal, protective figures of the ranches had been killed, and were not afraid, nor ashamed to steal cattle, rob the households and even murder the ones that stood in their way.
Damiano’s family had been prosperous. It was one of the oldest in San Antonio and was of noble Spanish descent. They used to have servants, hired vaqueros and horse handlers, even slaves. During the war, all had been either killed or had seized the chance of running away.
And now he was the sole master; but also a cowboy, goatherder, horse handler, servant, and slave, at his own ranch. The big mansion was deserted and desolate, partially burned down. Damiano made no repairs to it. He had simply moved into a smaller dwelling house, what used to be a large kitchen with a couple of rooms for the servants. He lived there in one chamber, all alone, morose and moping around, with a guitar in his hand, when he wasn’t toiling. With the exception of a few men that came to help him from time to time, there was no one there anyway. The members of his family had been also killed.
The uninspired accusation of the priest still resounded in his years from time to time: “It is a punishment from God because man was not meant to enslave others.” Damiano had stopped going to church when he heard the priest making up an excuse for God killing his entire family and ruining his estate. However he still needed the comfort of faith, and he often read the Bible when he felt like breaking down in crying fits… He hadn’t shed one tear since the tragedy had happened! Just held everything inside. And in that comfort zone of darkness and loneliness, he had dwelled. Till the latter came.
Until the war broke, they had kept in touch with their root family. Every three years or so they would make a very long journey to Spain, to his cousin, Simon’s mansion. Simon’s family did the same, visiting them from time to time. But what with the war going on, they had interrupted their habit.
She had always been there. Every time he visited his cousin, or his cousin visited him, there she was, in a new painting, each time older and more beautiful. And the letters were there, too. He gave his cousin his and collected hers. He didn’t even remember who started the correspondence during late childhood, or who’s idea it had been, but they were amazingly alike. They even had this strange name coincidence going on –and that had become their motto “There are no coincidences”: her family name was Damiano, the same as his first name. Her given name was Margareta. And she was indeed as beautiful as a flower.
So, what started as a single letter, developed into dozens at a time, entire novellas, that meant to cover all of the distance and the time between them. As they grew up, the novellas developed into extended love poems and, in no time, they had promised each other their hearts and hands, when the time would be right. She hadn’t even seen him, as he wasn’t very fond of standing still for a portrait and had none to show for. But he was sure his cousin had described him to her. She didn’t seem to care what he looked like, anyway, as long as he wrote to her in that lovely, poetic manner he did. She simply understood him and he understood her. Even at that great distance, they had connected.
Her family was friends with Simon’s family. Strangely enough, she was always away to some other country, when he came to visit: her father often traveled with business all over Europe and Asia and he took her with him. But she always left him letters and some new portrait. So they had never met face to face. And they were about to… only at the worst of times possible.
He had just received a letter from his cousin -which was another miracle, given the circumstances and the robberies going on, on the traveling roads and the fact that a very small number of outsiders came to San Antonio- dated about one month before, saying they were both in Norfolk, Virginia and about to head his way. In few details, he was explaining how Margareta’s father had died and how the French Revolution had affected and infected the entire continent. Families like theirs had been persecuted, literally driven out of their homes. So, if he was still planning to marry her, as promised in the letters, now was as good a time as ever.
He had included a photograph of her, the one he was now holding in his hand. At first, he didn’t even know what it was, but he had gasped on seeing the realness of it, especially the intensity of her Spanish, dark eyes, looking right back at him. He had passed his thumb over it, in amazement, recalling how he would tell her he would take a vacation into her pitch black hair. The thought of actually being able to run his fingers through it gave him a warm feeling in his heart, and for the first time in years, he smiled.
The horrors of the war had erased her and all the promises they had made from his memory. Although, during the few quiet nights he had at the fort, she had been on his mind and in his heart. Upon returning to his ranch, however, or what was left of it, he forgot her completely, totally engrossed in and overwhelmed by the tragedy which had struck him, physically wounded and broken-hearted at the prospect of having to survive, rather than actually live.
He didn’t even have her letters anymore. Now, seeing her face with that daring, slightly proud smile she wore in all her paintings, in such real detail, he could hear parts of them in his mind.
The corners of his mouth moved downwards and he frowned. He wasn’t the man in those letters anymore: life had hardened his heart. Suddenly he felt sick to the stomach: she was expecting to find a prince, a savior, with a mansion full of servants and the lush, carefree and adventurous life he had described in his letters. Not… that! And he looked towards the desolate site of the houses, the dirty stables, and rickety roundups.
Suddenly, the setting sun came out of the clouds. He turned his head towards it, watching how its warm colors made the clear waters of the river and the green grass glisten, like a promise. He remembered that, one year before, the same site was just burnt ground and the waters poured muddy and sometimes creepily red. Nature had a way of being reborn every year, even after a catastrophe. It was exactly like this Bible verse that had caught his eye one evening: Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and future.” He decided to stop worrying and just go with the flow.
“There are no coincidences,” he said to himself, then gave a whistle to his dog and spurred his horse, proceeding to gather up his livestock.
*Margareta Damiano had never been more baffled in her life, embarrassed, angry and worried, bordering on scared, all at the same time. The carriage ride had been bad enough. It had gone on forever. The wagon ride had been even worse: it got her sore, numb and bored. The inns and taverns they spent the nights in had been ever scarcer and poorer. As they closed in on their destination, she even had to sleep in the wagon, all dirty and slightly hungry. Good thing it was summer. Being compelled to wear man’s clothing, had seemed too much for her. But she decided quickly that Simon running away with the carriage and his part of the gold and just leaving her there was the sour icing on this mud cake.
Although long and exhausting, she had enjoyed the trip with the ship; she was used to traveling with them and loved the ocean. To her luck, the trip had been uneventful: no pirates and only a mild storm. And Norfolk had been nothing short of delightful, colorful and instructive, like every harbor. She had even visited a beautiful replica of the temple of Theseus, she had seen in Athens, in the form of the prestigious Norfolk Academy. All in all, she was impressed with the new world and content with her decision. Until they had started to move southwest by carriage. She had discovered that the more they moved towards the southern borders, the more serious and sadder the people were, with their skins burnt by the sun and wind and the eyes sunken in their heads. Life seemed to have been rough on them.
Halfway through their journey, they had joined a wagon ensemble of itinerant merchants. They had asked them where they were headed and they told them it was San Antonio. And that’s when she first heard the word “war” and it sent chills down her spine. The people didn’t know much, only that it had ended the year before and that there had been Mexicans involved. Merchants still rarely ventured over there, though. Margareta felt desperate at the thought she had fled from a Revolution and was headed towards a war site. She would clench her Bible tight and wished that San Antonio hadn’t been too affected and that her dear Damiano hadn’t been killed.
When they parted with the ensemble, as they entered Texas, the people advised them to get rid of their fancy carriage and told her she should dress up as a man, for her safety. That sounded gruesome even as an idea. Her friend, Simon, had convinced her to do so. So they sold the carriage for nothing, that is a murky hooded wagon, man’s simple clothing both for her and her chaperone, and some food, from those merchants.
She found wearing the clothes even more gruesome and disgusting in reality. But when they actually met up with dirty vaqueros leading their cattle, she was glad she wasn’t wearing a crinoline dress. The sombrero hid her hair well and she would stuff her face nose high in the scarf around her neck. However, those men never gave them any troubles: although they looked more like robbers than decent people, they saluted them politely, their hands at their hats or sombreros, and just saw to their business.
Those people seemed to have no boss but rather be their own bosses. They seemed harsh and broken. Their eyes made Margareta sad. The way things were evolving made her sad. Fortunately, she had Damiano’s letters with her, for comfort; she hadn’t been able to take all of them, so she had chosen the most beautiful ones, with sonnets about her hair, the beautiful description of his estate, rhymes about how perfect they were for each other, how he would wait only for her. One line she would read repeatedly: “I can assure you, sweet Margareta, there is nothing empty about me: if you were here, you would be my life.”
What had always impressed her about Damiano was the profound way in which he saw the world. She had remarked that even as a young girl. Although from a family as rich as hers, he didn’t seem superficial or infatuated, like other noble young men were. He would amaze her with his perceptiveness and the depths of his emotions. He was a dreamer like she was.
It was with these thoughts that she approached San Antonio. What struck her immediately and interrupted her romantic musing, was the huge burial ground, with hundreds – or was it thousands?- of wooden crosses. She had never seen anything like it. Some of the graves had been dug superficially and, after rain upon rain, some of the bones were sticking out of them. “Human bones.” Margareta thought and shuddered. She was glad they hadn’t arrived at night or she would have been terrified. She believed in ghosts and the like.
They hurried on, both Simon and her with chills riding down their backs. The sun was beginning to set and she really hoped to get to an inn first, get cleaned up and in the morning visit Damiano’s estate. Although, judging by the next desolate site they walked by, maybe the town had been even more affected than she had feared: there was this big house, half burnt, surrounded by other small rickety houses and neglected stables and roundups.
When she looked at Simon, she saw he had suddenly turned yellow, his eyes bulging out of his head, and asked him what was going on, but he just shook his head. She had noticed him becoming increasingly quiet and concerned, ever since they had entered Texas, but he wouldn’t talk about it. But this time, he really seemed troubled.
Out of nowhere -it seemed- there was suddenly the noise of cattle, accompanied by the whistles of someone. Simon inexplicably slammed his sombrero over his head, covering his eyes, and did the same with hers and pulled her scarf almost over her mouth. But before Margareta could ask why he was behaving so strangely, a few cows, goats, and horses passed their wagon by and two large dogs began barking at them. They were approached in the gallop of his horse by a vaquero, who stopped less than 20 feet from them, and called his dogs to him.
His sombrero was hanging down his back. He had a rifle in his hand. Margareta froze, although he wasn’t holding it menacingly, but rather just having it around, to show that it is there. He came closer, saying nothing, just scrutinizing them, shading his eyes with one hand.
Margareta’s heart gave a start upon seeing his visage clearer: he wore a sloppy beard and had the same harsh look on his sunburnt face as the other vaqueros they had encountered, yet there was something different about him. His expression wasn’t broken, but rather proud. The furrow between his eyes was deep, and so were the expression wrinkles framing his mouth. Yet his eyes were clear and, as the sun rays hit him directly, they glistened in an unusual color, dark green. It was the same with his beard and his unkempt, slightly long hair, which both had a strange auburn shade. She also remarked how he sat up in his saddle very straight, like a noble, not like a cowboy.
Although she wasn’t supposed to talk, so as not to give away the fact she was a woman, she felt the strong and unusual urge to speak to him. But he spurred his horse without a word, turning it around and driving his cattle with whistles towards the abandoned houses. Margareta shrugged and turned towards Simon, only to find him nose deep in his sombrero, his hands shaking on the reins.
“OK, what is going on?!” she had burst.
“Nothing…” Simon had babbled and urged the horses on.
They had entered the town and she found it under-populated, but not desolate in the way she had expected it, not in the way that abandoned chateaux had scared her. The people had been obviously busy rebuilding, getting their lives back together. Couple that with the nice weather –actually, pretty much like in Spain- and the pretty rich vegetation, and it wasn’t an ugly site. Maybe she would try and get merchants to come and do business again. In his letters, Damiano had told her that it was a flourishing town as far as commerce was concerned. She had inherited her late father’s sense for business, by following him around in his travels, so she had instantly assessed the town as having such great possibility for re-developing.
They passed a church by, which made her glad: it was the perfect spot to start socializing. Finally, they got to what seemed to be an inn, but it was more of a saloon, probably with other shady functions. Simon ran quickly inside. Now she knew that it was probably because he was getting his plan together, probably telling people not to say anything to her that would get her to ask questions.
And now she stood in front of that saloon, in a dress she used to wear when she went hunting with her dad, with the fierce thought that Simon had abandoned her there, yet still hoping he had only gone to announce Damiano of their arrival. She had no clue as to where she should head to. She had noticed the people staring at her, as she came downstairs, but she had thought it was because she had gone up as a man and came down as a woman, in a dress too fancy for that place. She quickly went inside again and asked about Simon and the Abana estate. The people there were speaking a weird mix of Spanish with an English accent and English with a Spanish accent, plus native words. She could understand them, though; she most certainly understood when some of the men burst out into wicked laughter.
A woman who seemed of easy virtue approached her, with pity in her eyes and said:
“Honey, your friend left you here. He took off in the middle of the night. And the Abana estate… well, there is no more estate. It was burnt down almost completely during the war.”
“And… the Abana family?” she had asked, her voice shaking.
“The only one left is their middle son, Damiano, but he’s a…”
“Can I buy a horse?” she had shouted and flashed a few gold coins.
*
Damiano Abana turned around when he heard his dogs barking. And if not for the dogs barking, he would’ve dismissed what he saw as a figment of his imagination: an Amazon woman was riding straight towards him from the direction of the barely risen sun, rays of light glowing from behind her. As she was approaching, he could see her large, dark curls bouncing around her shoulders and her tall, athletic waist, in contrast with her generous bosom which was starting from the movement of the horse. She looked exactly like a painting of Margareta Damiano… It was Margareta Damiano!
His dogs dashed towards her horse and before he could call them back they were already barking at the horses hooves and making it neigh and prance on his back legs. The girl shouted loudly, not a cry of fear, but more of an angry warrior yell, holding the reins tightly, never falling. In an instant, Damiano was near her, grabbing the reins and stilling her horse.
They found themselves staring closely at each other’s faces, and Margareta realized it was the vaquero she had seen the other day and had caught her attention. Her heart was pounding from the fright the horse had given her, but also from the realization of the fact he was…
“Da… miano?” she asked, unsure.
He could only nod.
“Hello!” and she smiled with all her teeth at him. “I am…”
“I know who you are,” he interrupted her rudely, astonished at how coarse and unfriendly his voice sounded.
He clenched his fist tighter on the reins because he felt a strange urge of driving his hand through her hair. Then pulling her to his chest and hugging her as tightly as he could. She looked exactly like in the paintings, with that amazing tanned skin, big, almond shaped, dark eyes, a small, snub nose and a mouth like a rosebud. Her shoulders were broad and she kept her back very straight. He realized he was staring with his mouth open and he closed it.
“How…” he began. “When did you arrive? Where is Simon?”
He spoke Spanish, with the same accent and pronunciation as the people at the saloon. Somehow, with his voice, it didn’t sound awkward to her, but really nice.
“We drove past you yesterday evening,” she answered. “I know I was in disguise, but didn’t you recognize Simon?”
He shook his head.
“You were the two strangers? I couldn’t recognize any of you. But Simon should have recognized me, and… the location of the ranch… Where is he now?”
Margareta frowned and pouted slightly, which he found adorable and strived to move the focus from her lips on her words, which weren’t very comforting:
“I think he might have fled.”
Damiano could understand how the condition of his former estate might have scared his cousin. But to flee like a coward and leave her there? That made him furious. It was his turn to frown. Margareta licked her lips, thinking, then started talking really fast, almost without breathing. She had this lovely Spanish lisp when she pronounced her “s”-es.
“Listen! Do you happen to own a wagon? I have my belongings in a room at the inn establishment. I wouldn’t trust them there for too long. And I also have to take this horse back, it’s only borrowed. The people here don’t accept gold as payment. They said they have no use for it because merchants rarely come to San Antonio since the war. You know, for a state called Texas, the people aren’t very friendly. Not too polite, either. They suggested that I pay in some other way for my room and the horse... in nature. Luckily, there was this friendly, although promiscuous looking lady who stood up for me.”
It was the second time Damiano was feeling furious of his cousin and at the people in the town, too. But he couldn’t just leave his animals there to take her to town.
“Margareta,” he stopped her and she thought it was the most beautiful pronunciation of her name she had ever heard. “Please go back to town, and find the yellow house near the church. There, you will find an old man called Benicio; tell him who you are and that I’ve sent you. He will help you with a wagon and your things. As for the room, when you take the horse back, tell those pricks that they should take your gold or I’ll deal with them!”
Margareta enlarged her eyes, on hearing the curse word, but didn’t seem offended. She nodded, with a little smile on her lips. I mean, sure, he was rugged and scruffy, but he seemed manly and tough and was willing to stand up for her. He simply needed a woman’s touch.
While she was away, Damiano had time to think of the situation. All the alarming emotions he had felt upon seeing her: he simply couldn’t let them take him over. Life was going to be hard for her here. True that she didn’t seem delicate, not in any way, but quite tough, and she hadn’t seemed delicate or squeamish in her letters, either. On the one hand, he was glad she was exactly like she had described herself and he had imagined her to be: brave and adventurous; on the other hand, he didn’t need to develop a soft spot for her. No, he was going to help her adapt to that life, but without allowing her to come close to him.
While he was away, Margareta had time to check out the remains of the ranch… and be totally disgusted with the conditions he lived in. She just couldn’t understand why he hadn’t pulled himself together. The old man, Benicio, had told her how devastating the fire had been and that she shouldn’t judge him: how horrible it must’ve been to come back home wounded and find that while he was protecting something the government told him to, the same government did nothing to protect his loved ones. That had made him lock up inside himself. But he did remember him in the good days: a charming young man, a bit on the wild side, but not a mean person. Not like some people in town had been to him, as if they were glad to see that war, suffering, and death also affected the rich, not only the poor. Margareta thought that it was exactly like her story back in Spain before she decided to flee.
She was still musing, seated on the porch of the house he lived in, when she heard the bells of the cows, as they returned home. He also came, riding his horse, but he first drove the animals to their round ups and stable, before dismounting in front of her. She stood up to meet him, but he looked at her briefly and harsh and simply said:
“I still need to milk the cows and goats. If you’re hungry…”
“I ate. Benicio, that old darling, gave me bread and showed me around to where you keep cheese and smoked meat…”
Without letting her finish, he passed her by, entering the house. She noticed he had a slight limp in his right leg and she also noticed he was trying to conceal it, the best he could. He of average height, which made him just slightly taller than she was, but had a broad chest and strong arms. She decided she wasn’t going to be intimidated by that rude, savage attitude; he was probably just very tired and maybe also overwhelmed.
He had actually felt too moved of the image of her waiting on his porch, so he just tried to get it out of his mind.
“Did you make those? They were delicious!” he heard her shout after him.
“This is where you’ll sleep!” he shouted back, and when she didn’t come, he gave another shout: “Margy!”
She went inside following his voice, feeling giddy about that little pet name, the one he also used in his letters. But her happiness was over in an instant when she saw her lodging. They were in a room next to his. No one had lived there for a year: the dust was almost 2 inches. And those covers… Margareta didn’t wanna think about it, but just go along and arrange things in time.
“It’s safest for you to sleep here, close to me. I mean… so that I… so that you…” he babbled, cursing himself for letting his mouth run. “I gotta go. You should sleep if you ate. Good night!” and he stormed out of the room and out of the house.
“But where will I wash…?” she shouted after him.
“The ditch!” he shouted back.
“Outside?!”
*The next morning she suddenly woke up when someone slammed a pile of dirty clothes over her.
“Get up! Get dressed! Come with me!”
“Wait… What… where?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
Damiano was standing in front of her bed, a gaslight in one hand and one pair of boots in the other.
“I will teach you to milk the cows and goats.”
“Milk the…?” she faintly started.
She stared blankly out of the window –there was barely any hint of light on the horizon– and then at the dirty clothes he had thrown on her –not that the covers she had finally used, with repulsion, to cover herself up, were any better- and took about half a minute to let the information sink into her brain. The conclusion was she hadn’t heard right. So she slammed her body back on the bed.
“Come, on” an impatient Damiano strut through the room, striving to walk without a limp. “I’ll go buy some chicken and a rooster. With you around, I can finally do that. Even you can guard some chicken.”
“Guard the chicken?!” she asked.
“Yeah, from the chicken hawk. I can’t do that when I’m away with the livestock. But you’re here, now.” and he gestured widely towards her with the lantern.
He seemed almost glad, saying that and had a gleeful air, like a little boy.
“We can also start a vegetable garden,” he added, starting to pace the room again. “I gotta think about what seeds will still germinate at this time. Let’s hope the autumn will be long and warm as usual. You can also play the scarecrow in the garden when the plants emerge.”
“The… scarecrow?!” she echoed him again, getting more outraged by the minute.
“Yes. Just stand around the garden and drive the crows away. Or wead out. The birds will get scared if they see you.”
“What?!”
“And… “ he continued quickly, hoping she will let his ambiguous comment slip -which he hadn’t meant as an insult, but somehow it just came out that way- “and you can also clean this place up… and mine. Wash the covers, too.”
“Clean this place?!” she almost shouted, now fully awake.
“Are you a parrot?” he replied, annoyed.
“No! I am a lady! And I certainly didn’t come all the way here to be your milking cow!”
“Pf!” he went, arrogantly “Darlin’… you’ve got nothing on my milking cows!”
Margareta grabbed the clothes and threw them violently at him, yelling in anger:
“How dare you?!”
“Hey, what’s wrong with you, girl?” he snapped at her, shaking off the clothes which had fallen on the lantern. “Do you wanna set this place on fire?”
“This isn’t a place! It’s a pig sty! It would be best to burn it down. What’s wrong with you? Why haven’t you cleaned this yourself? It’s been half…”
“Well, I didn’t know her royal majesty, the queen of Spain, was coming for a visit! In case you haven’t noticed this isn’t Baden-Baden!”
“OK! Who the hell are you? And what have you done with the man who wrote me letters for 15 years?”
Damiano was suddenly silent. He was aware that he was behaving badly, exactly because of the stress of not being that man anymore and not having the conditions to offer her. But he wasn’t going to just admit that, so he carried on.
“You should also cook. You know… woman stuff!”
“You mean, servant stuff!” she remarked, still angry. “And you gotta be joking! I’ve never cooked in my life! No one in my family ever did! And I am not about to start to. My ancestors would roll in their graves! And if you eat something I’ll cook, I bet you’ll end up in a grave in no time, as well!”
Then she gasped when she suddenly had an idea and blurted it out to him:
“I’d much rather lead the cattle! How hard could it be? I already know how to ride, and I’ve been with my father hunting lots of times. It can’t be harder than that. I just need to come with you one time, and I’ll know how to do it! I am a very quick learner!”
At this proposition, Damiano sat down on a chair and put the gaslight on the table.
“Hm, interesting! And do you also know how to shoot a gun, little lady?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. But why would I…?”
“Rustlers.” he interrupted her, raising an eyebrow.
“Rustlers?” she echoed.
“Bandits!”
“Interesting!” she instantly retorted.
Damiano threw his head backward with a guffaw. Hearing him laughing made her feel good inside. She didn’t know why at first. But as she savored his wide, amazing smile she realized that it gave her the certainty that the Damiano from the letters was still in there, somewhere.
“Oh, you are too much: I say ‘bandits’, and you say ‘interesting’?”
“Who’s the parrot now?” she raised her own eyebrow.
He laughed again, then jumped up and offered her a handshake.
“Deal! I’ll teach you to be a vaquero. But… this also includes milking and making cheese. And I am getting those chicken. I’ll teach you to cook, too. I’m not much of a cook, but at this point, I am better than you.”
She made that delicious pout again that he just felt like kissing. He was actually impressed with how headstrong and willful she was. Just like in her letters. But something was still blocked inside of him; he would’ve never admitted to anything to her, nothing that would have gotten them to come closer, close enough to get hurt again… if he lost her, too.
“What?!” he provoked her. “You said you were a quick learner.”
“One one condition…” she agreed.
“You’ve got conditions?”
“Yes!” she pointed a finger at him. “That when I’m away with the cattle, you fix this place up so that it starts looking like a home again. You know: man stuff! Then, when you’re away, I’ll clean: woman stuff. And I want to be able to bring water easily in here.”
“That’s condition number two. Can’t you just go to the ditch, like I do?”
“Not if you really want me to help you clean this… this abomination!”
For the second time that morning, Damiano Abana smiled, and extended his hand to her:
“OK!”
And she took his hand and shook it.
“Now get dressed! I’ll wait for you at the stables.”
*Margareta was cursing the day she had decided to flee to this land of opportunities… more like the land of lost dreams. She was milking a goat and cursing, something she never thought she had in her. And the poor creature must’ve felt that she wasn’t balanced, and gave her a hard time, fidgeting, turning her head towards her and bleating in her hair, which she found disgusting, as she found the smell. The milk was good, though and so was the cheese.
She had to hold the animal still, by one leg, with one hand and milk it with the other. Her palms were already sore and numb from days of milking and had hardened blisters, another thing she had never thought she’d have. She had also gotten blisters on her inner thighs from riding and had decided to switch to trousers, in spite of her abhorrence towards man’s clothing. One evening, her head down to hide her blush, she had quietly extended the trousers to Damiano, plus two large pieces of leather, for him to sew into the fabric, using the awl, a tool she had noticed he was good with. Equally as quietly, he had complied.
It had already been one month since she was there. She had accepted the agreement with Damiano, and they took turns in taking the livestock grazing. When they went with the herd, they also hunted wild turkeys and small quails. He would sometimes come back with fish. Sometimes, old Benicio and a young man would help them around.
He had kept his part of the bargain, and mended the house they both lived in, and another smaller outhouse, which she fashioned as a washing room. He also made a system for her to bring water from the ditch, without too much trouble. She had also kept her part of the bargain, by cleaning and washing the place and the covers. Although, the one she would’ve really liked to clean and wash was Damiano. He did clean himself up –the stench from the animals was not something he wouldn’t bear on himself- but his appearance was sloppy and showed that he didn’t have too much respect towards his own person.
Margareta wasn’t the type to enjoy being cooped up in an isolated place. So, she began to go to the church and the priest took a liking to her: she was smart, polite and loquacious and quoted the Bible like a nun. Through other activities, she had gotten to know other people in town, as well. She would barter and swap produce with them, even her fancy dresses. She even got some of them to accept gold coins for new covers and sheets and other useful things, speaking to them ardently about how everything was going to change that summer and how San Antonio would become prosperous again. That’s what she loved doing the most: speaking to people and bartering. The people also liked her… and secretly pitied her for being stuck with that Abana savage.
However, she also loved going out with the herd, although it proved exhausting. Yet what she loved most was… that “Abana savage” and that was the hardest part of it all. It would have been easier for her if he had been dense and obtuse through and through, but from time to time, he would give her small glimpses of the man he had come to know and love in the letters. Yet each time she wanted to come near him, he would reject her, sometimes with sarcasm, sometimes by being rude, but most of the times by just being aloof and working himself to sleep. The only conversations he would allow her were regarding work. He would hear nothing of going with her to the church or other kinds of gatherings in the town, and when she went on her own nevertheless, he would be extra grumpy and quiet upon her return.
The only big slip he had made was after an incident that had frightened her to death. It was her day for guarding the animals and she had just climbed down her horse, to cool her face in the river, when she heard:
“Hey, there, little missy.”
Her heart jumped in her chest when she turned and saw this dirty unknown man grinning at her with his disgusting wooden teeth, already too close to her for comfort. Her gun was in the saddle, but other two men had already seized her horse. She tried to make a run for it, fearing for her life. That’s when the man grabbed her by her arm. She yelled.
All of a sudden, there was the loud noise of a gun shooting. Arisen out of nowhere, riding his horse, Damiano was pointing his firearm at the men. He had already shot one of them in the shoulder and the poor bastard was wailing.
“Let… her… go!” Damiano said menacingly, through his teeth.
The bandit did just that, instantly and put his hands up, whining:
“Don’t shoot!”
“Get the hell outta here!” Damiano shouted. “The next time I’ll see you, you’ll be chewing on these bullets! No warning!”
The men got quickly on their horses and rode away, in a gallop. Margareta felt her legs weakening and fell to her knees on the ground. She was shaking like a leaf. Damiano jumped down from his horse, with a grimace of pain, when he landed on his wounded leg. Nevertheless, he kneeled quickly next to her.
“Are you hurt? Margy…”
Tears were rolling freely down her cheeks. She asked in a trembling voice:
“How… how are you here?”
“Something wasn’t right. I could feel it,” he said, with fear in his eyes.
She clung to his shirt and started crying loudly. And then he simply pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly, almost desperately, saying:
“No… no, don’t cry, Margy! It’s alright! I’m here! Don’t cry… “ then he added in a whisper “You’re breaking my heart.”
That made her stop after a few more sobs, but she remained in his arms for a while longer, until he whispered:
“Come on, I want you to go back and rest for the day.”
When he returned that evening, he asked her with a smile, almost lovingly, if she was alright and she confirmed. He told her she should just remain around the house for a few days, that he will get the other men to help him. Then he made a gesture like about to stroke her hair, but stopped his hand in mid air, baffled by his own reaction. He turned on his heels and saw to the cattle, without calling her to help him, like he usually did.
After that, he turned even colder than he had been till then, even more rude, and work oriented. Margareta was confused that evening. And angry. So, when Damiano called to her from the other corner of the stable if she was finished, she yelled back:
“I’m sick of this! To hell with it!” and she let the goat go.
Damiano got up and came to her, in a menacing stride, so worked up that he had forgotten to hide his limp. It didn’t impress Margareta, who, in her turn, got up to face him. He folded his arms over his chest while she put her hands on her hips.
“So?!” he began.
“So, what?!” she retorted.
“So, just go, if you don’t wanna be here!” he gestured.
“Go where? To the house?” she asked, confused.
“Back to Spain!” he threw to her.
“What?!” she exclaimed. “Is this what you want me to do?”
“Don’t make this about me!” he gathered his arms defensively over his chest once again.
“It is exactly about you! You… you… wild boar! Did you think this was about the goats?”
Damiano puffed through his nose, frowned, tightening his lips and exited the stable.
“Don’t you run away from this, from me.” the girl followed him, determined to get to the end of it.
Outside, dark clouds were riding in the sky, pressing low over their heads. It had been like that for one week: no rain, just a hot wind, and that nasty pressure. Damiano looked up worryingly but then moved his attention towards Margareta, who was still shouting after him.
“Damiano!”
“Look, Margy! You should just leave me alone, right now!” he told her, his back to her.
“Yes, but why is this any different than all the other times I should just leave you alone? I want to know why you’re trying so damn hard to keep yourself in the dark?”
“I’m not trying anything… the darkness is safer.” and he was amazing at what he had just gotten out of his mouth.
Margareta was amazed, too. But felt like something was breaking. So, she went on, this time milder, trying to get in his face, though he just turned his back again.
“What happened to you, Damiano? You used to have such depths to your soul!”
“War happened!” he retorted, trying hard to compose himself.
“War ended!” she remarked emphatically.
“It didn’t end in here!” he suddenly shouted, turning to her, raising his hand to his chest, his face distorted by grief.
The girl was startled, both at his tone and at the heartbreaking look in his eyes. She was wondering for how long he had kept that shout inside of him.
“The depths you seek are now filled with gurgling blood, screams, and gunshots. Do you have any idea what it’s like to see so much death and return home and find that it has followed you? It is a fate worse than dying!”
Margareta was remembering the time her mother died of TB and she was spitting blood, sometimes choking on it. When she gave her last breath, she actually did make a gurgling sound, that gave her nightmares for years. She was 10. As to screams and gunshots, those were the reason she had fled from Spain. The streets were slowly becoming a battleground.
“Working is the only thing that makes me forget.” Damiano continued. “I thought… when I saw that photograph of you… I thought… and then when you came to me on horseback, like a vision…” his eyes glowed as he said that, going for an instant to a different place, but then frowning again and going “No…” and turning his back to her again.
Margareta approached him carefully, the way you approach a wild animal. She could feel him flinch when she slowly put her hand on his shoulder.
“People die on you,” she said quietly. “Especially loved ones. I know what it’s like. I have looked death in the eye for a couple of times, myself.”
“It’s not the same as being surrounded by it.” he stubbornly affirmed, trying to shake her hand off his shoulder.
Margareta only tightened her grip and came around to face him, her eyes all lighting bolts:
“No,” she said with a sarcastic tone, “it’s not the same! No experience compares to yours! Only you have suffered! Your pain is the biggest in the world! Is this what you think?”
He grabbed her shoulders, without being able to utter a word, his green eyes glistening.
“What? You think I can’t understand pain or loss? I lost both my parents and my home and I am 5000 miles away from the place I was born, with no way to return.” she grabbed his face in her palms. “Why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you let me inside? I know you’re still there! I know!”
“I can’t!” he said through his teeth, lowering her hands. “I can’t let you in, only to have you leave, or… die on me. On that day, with the rustlers, you can’t imagine how… how…”
His voice was trembling. She threw his arms around him, overwhelmed by the look in his eyes and the intensity of his and her emotions.
“I… won’t… leave!” she said. “No matter what you say to me, or how much toil you put me through. I know it’s you! It’s you! It’s the dear you I’ve always wanted to run to!”
He hugged her back, tightly:
“How do I know? How do I know He’s not gonna take you, too?”
And she knew he meant God. So, she said the first thing that came to her mind:
“For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and future.”
She could feel him softening in her arms. He leaned his head on her shoulder. Then, like a lost child, he began sobbing silently, his back jerking slightly. Margareta’s eyes filled up with tears, too, but, at the same time, she had an understanding smile on her lips.
Rain drops started to fall on their heads. He caressed her cheek with his and whispered in her ear:
“Thank you!”
She cleared her throat, touched, and answered:
“You definitely need a shave.”
He chuckled and she laughed.
*When he woke up, a mysterious, dim blue light came in through the window. It was raining and he was glad at first, then he moaned at the prospect of having to go outside. Another faint moan answered him. His heart jumped when he laid his eyes on her: she was curled up in front of him, smiling in her sleep, just a slight movement of the corner of her lips. They were lying on his bed on their sides, facing each other.
In an instant, he remembered everything: their talk, him breaking down, her comforting him, her going past his door towards her room and him calling her inside, to show her he had shaved. They had talked till late in the night and, when they were too sleepy to stay awake, he had simply told her:
“Stay…”
He didn’t want to wake her up, but he was feeling numb and made the slightest move in order to release the arm trapped underneath his body.
She exhaled and opened her eyes, blinking a few times, until she widened them, in surprise. Like him, she had forgotten they had slept in the same bed. But was reminded of everything in an instant.
„Hey,” she said lovingly.
Her eyes were glistening in the semi-darkness and her hair was falling on her neck.
„Mornin’...” he retorted, feeling a sweet mixture of nervousness and expectation.
He had a strong urge to remove that lock of hair from her neck, to feel the warm throb of her pulse under his fingers, but he cherished that simple moment so much, that he didn't want to risk spoiling it.
Like so many times, she had a similar idea, only she didn’t censor it: slowly, comforting, she placed a hand on his cheek, still amazed at how much a shave could change a person. His skin was smooth. She could see the line of his mouth clearly and the shape of his strong jaw.
He made an effort not to start, when her fingers touched his skin, the same way his heart started in his chest. Her palm gave tingles to his cheek. He closed his eyes for a second, just feeling it.
“Your hand is so warm…” he wondered in a low voice, covering her hand with his.
“Yours is… too,” she answered and her smile grew.
He smiled back. She licked her lips and blinked a few times, the way she always did when she was thinking of something to say.
“Did you know…” she started. “Um…”
“Yes?” he mildly encouraged her.
“Well… scientists have suggested that the first thing of the body that is formed inside the mother’s womb is the heart.”
“Oh?” he went, amused.
He was thinking that she must’ve just said a random thing, to alleviate some of the tension and so, he humored her thread of conversation:
“I thought it was the brain, would have been logical more logical.”
“No, no. The brain is formed way later. It’s actually the heart that’s first. And… afterward…”
She slowly turned her hand around and entangled her fingers with his, biting her lower lip, drawing nearer to him, a strange force of attraction which she couldn’t resist, working on her.
She was close enough that he could feel her warmth and energy, buzzing around his head. Their palms felt like they were merging. He was the one to blink rapidly this time and felt his cheeks catching fire, his heart starting to pound and his breath modifying.
“Afterward... from the heart,” she said in a whisper, looking at their hands, unwinding her body slowly, to line up with his “the arms and hands begin to form.”
“So…” he whispered back, quickly, understanding that it had never been a random thing, “if… if our hands are warm…”
He felt his mouth dry up and his voice failing as she raised her huge brown black to his, so close to him now that he could see flames dancing in them. He couldn’t look away.
“Our hearts are warm, too.” she whispered and he could sense her breath on his face.
He traced the line of her cheek with a finger like he did so many times in his dreams and felt his mind going numb from how real it felt. She was real, she was in his room, in his bed, looking at him… like that.
“Your eyes…” he sighed “burn… through me, like a raging fire.”
She lowered her eyes with a smile, while covering the last few inches between them, touching his knees and toes with hers, through the covers, whispering close to his lips, slightly brushing them:
"You are such a poet. You have always been.” and she giggled, stirring butterflies in his stomach.
She simply lingered there, without kissing him, the vibe of it tormenting him, yet simply delicious. Her lips were slightly open and their breaths were mingling.
“And you have been, are and always will be my muse,” he whispered back, against her expectant mouth, before catching her lips with his.
It was really happening! He was really kissing her and her mouth was even hotter than he had imagined it, her lips even softer and more delicious than a fruit, submissive yet at the same time passionate. He tasted them at leisure, indulging in that pleasure he had only dreamed about till then, his ears filled for a long time only with the soft sounds of their mouths and the pounding of his own heart.
And then another type of pounding came slowly into his focus, which at first he couldn’t place. But then she heard it, too and she opened her eyes, looking up towards the ceiling, yet still kissing him. He was the one to break it and suddenly sit up in terror, from the realization of what it might have been.
The rain had stopped, yet the roof was rattling above their heads, and the wind was howling and striking the window pane in strong gusts. Through the racket, he could faintly hear the cows and horses.
“Oh, no!”
“What is it?”
Why hadn’t he realized it one evening before?
“Margy, I need your help! The animals!” he cried, but then recomposed himself. “In fact, no! It’s too dangerous. Just head for the cellar!” and he was already out of the door.
“Damiano!” and she followed, running outside after him, barefoot.
What she saw terrified her: a violently rotating, dark column of air, which seemed to suck the very life of the clouds in the sky, touched the ground, wiping everything in its way. And it was headed towards the farm, with howls, like a terrible huge monster. She had only read about something like that, and now she was seeing it coming straight at her. She froze. She didn’t even see Damiano running towards her until he was grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her up and shouting:
“What are you doing? Head for the cellar. The tornado will be here in no time!”
She came to her senses:
“No! The animals! How many could we bring down to the cellar?”
It was the huge wine cellar of his estate, now empty and quite roomy. Margareta carried the chicken and dragged some goats, the ones she knew gave the most milk and then she went to help Damiano drag some of the cows and horses down the steps, the ones that were reluctant to move on their own. Most of the horses had run away. So had the dogs. All the while, the twister was getting closer and closer. It seemed like it was going to pass right through, or at a very short distance from the estate.
The cellar was now filled with animals. Damiano shut the large doors and lead Margareta to a small adjacent room. Suddenly, she felt her legs shaking but didn’t want to break down again, like she did with the rustlers. She still leaned into the wall and slowly glided down, till she was hugging her knees. Suddenly she became aware of her bare feet, cold and sore, and she covered them with her palms.
“The damn dogs are nowhere to be seen!” and Damiano cursed, fidgetting. “They must’ve run away into the bushes at the first sign of the storm. If they had howled…”
He then saw her down, her hands on her feet and he crouched in front of her.
“Your feet, dummy!” he smiled to her. “What was the big idea of running around barefoot?”
But Margareta didn’t feel like smiling. She seemed scared and about to cry.
“No, don’t worry! You were wonderful and helped me so much!” and he raised his hand towards her hair, this time allowing himself to stroke it.
She snuggled her cheek into his palm, biting into her lower lip, trying hard not to cry, as she knew how much it troubled him.
“There was nothing more we could’ve done. It’s in the hands of God, now.”
He sat next to her and took her feet in his lap, warming them up.
“Is it strange that I don’t feel worried about this?” she heard him talking after a while. “It’s like everything is going to be alright now. Now that you’ve reached out to me, and got me out of my darkness.”
Margareta leaned into him and he laid a kiss on her soft hair.
They came out after a couple of hours, when the howling and the rattling had stopped altogether, and found that the tornado had only swept away the remains of the burnt mansion, but had missed the houses they lived in and the stable, by mere feet. They even found most of the animals that they had to leave behind. And even though there was a terrible mess all around, that needed to be cleaned, there was no sign of dark clouds what so ever and, for the first time in a week, the sky was of a clear blue and the sun was shining brightly and cheerfully, like a promise.
*Epilogue
“Miss Margareta!” old Benicio shouted. “Come, come quickly!”
“What?” she came out of the garden.
“It’s just like you’ve said! Merchants have come! Wagons of them.”
Margareta grabbed her horse and rode beside the old man into town.
When she saw the colorful ensemble that had occupied the square of San Antonio, she quickly realized there weren’t only merchants, there, but also settlers and immigrants and that they had been accompanied by military men. Through the multitude of faces, she suddenly recognized one; at his turn, the man gave a shout and waved cheerfully at her.
“Simon!” she shouted, hitting his shoulder while he laughed.
“Hey… I’m sorry I’ve left you like this, but as you can see, I didn’t waste my time. I used all of my acquaintances and influence to get the government worked up about this place. It was downright scandalous!”
“I don’t know if I should strangle you right now” Margareta growled “… or kiss you! Damiano might strangle you, though, nevertheless. I should be the one who breaks this to him.”
“Ooh, sound like you two have become close. Look at you! You’re a cowgirl!”
“A vaquero! And proud of it! I’ve faced bandits! And we went through a tornado two months ago! It barely missed the town…”
THE END